If Love Was Enough
by CampbellMay
Summary: A series of vignettes that look at what could be between Gemma and Kartik if things between them weren't so riddled with complications. Mostly plotless, romantic romping. Not to be confused with fluff.


AN: Okay, folks. I know this is a ridiculously long author's note but bear with me. Let me just introduce this little experiment I've got started here. Give it a try and let me know what you think. I'm bored and frustrated with the inevitable canon restraints put on Gemma and Kartik that I have to stick to in my other story, so this is how I plan to indulge myself.

I know I'm not alone in the wish that Gemma and Kartik got to see a little more action. But with the whole forbidden attraction thing going on, they have yet to seriously steam up the pages of the books and it always tends to feel awkward, forced, or simply unrealistic when they get hot and heavy in fanfiction that otherwise plays by the rules set forth in the canon.

So I'm writing this to satisfy my own (and hopefully your) need for Gemma and Kartik to just get it on already. It'll be a series of vignettes in which sexy plotless AU nonsense will ensue. Kind of like a look at what could happen between them if there weren't so many things keeping them at arm's length.

As of now the rating will remain T (maybe a strong T, if that were an option), unless I get an overwhelming amount of responses requesting something more. I do consider myself a tasteful writer, and I will not be depicting anything explicit or raunchy. But do let me know if you think I'm holding back _too_ much. I'll adapt to whatever the majority of my readers request.

Think of each chapter as a little session. Each one will include a four or five suggested tracks because I'm obsessed with music like that. Play the music (if you can get a hold of it), light a candle, put on your favorite ratty, oversized sweatshirt and find a quiet spot to get cozy and be hopelessly, illogically, and unreservedly romantic. Because that's precisely what _I'm_ doing at this very moment, as a matter of fact. So since _I'm_ writing this while in the mood, you're likely to enjoy reading it more if _you're_ in the mood. Might as well make it a complete experience, I say. ;)

Moodmusic-ma-jigger

Desire, by Ryan Adams

Naked As We Came, by Iron and Wine

Colors, by Amos Lee

Into the Fire, by Thirteen Senses

She Is, by The Fray

Also: As I do in my other story, I will be using British spelling in this fic…for some reason it helps me maintain the mood and setting more effectively. So if you come across a word that is spelled weird, that's the likeliest explanation.

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He should have been here by now. I know he must be angry with me, but surely he wouldn't keep me up all night waiting purely out of spite. I lean back against my pillows with a frown, feeling foolish for being so eager to see him when clearly he does not share my enthusiasm.

Foolish or not, I cannot help but crave his strength and steady calm, especially since I currently lack both. I would fall on my knees and beg shamelessly for his forgiveness in exchange for even a moment of his solace.

I pick at a stray thread on my quilt, absentmindedly tugging a seam open as I listen intently for the telltale creak of my window. It does not come.

I've grown so used to London by now that I hardly register the soft pit-pat of rain against my window until it accelerates to a deluge, the water surging over the glass in sheets. There is a lazy murmur of thunder and I let out a light sigh of disappointment, reaching over to dim the oil lamp by my bed. He is not coming. There's no use in making even more of a ninny of myself by holding out for him longer than I already have.

But just as I am settling under the covers, I hear an almost imperceptible creak behind me, and for a moment the sound of the rain grows louder. Then, with a tiny click the storm is muted again, and I can hear the soft slap of a pair of wet bare feet growing louder as they approach my bed. My entire body seems to stir in his presence, even though I have not yet set eyes on him. The lamp flares back to life behind me, and his voice is rough and harsh as he hisses my name. "Gemma. Gemma, wake up."

I turn to him, fighting to maintain an air of irritation as my eyes drift over his sodden person. He is wearing a loose-fitting yoked muslin shirt that hangs open to his breastbone and a pair of simple black trousers that need hemming. Yet I am more enticed by the fact that every inch of wet fabric is sucked against his beautifully sculpted body, and I can see for the first time the definition in his powerful thighs and abdomen. Rainwater drips from his soaked obsidian curls down to his face, tiny rivulets tracing paths over his dusky brown skin and bending under the sleek line of his jaw. His glistening neck looks good enough to eat, especially as it tautens with his angry swallow. At nineteen years of age, Kartik is fully a man, and an exceptionally well-made one at that.

My mouth is dry as I finally find the courage to meet his turbulent glare, and I can see without question that I am in a considerable amount of trouble.

Before he can speak, I slide past him and pluck my pink velveteen dressing gown from the coat rack, tugging it over my sheer nightdress in a hopeless attempt to preserve whatever boundaries still lie amidst us.

"Nice of you to turn up," I greet him coolly once I am decent, hoping to head off his impending tirade by going on the offensive.

He ignores me. His long, agile fingers are tense and restless at his sides, as if it is demanding all of his self-control to keep from giving me a good hard shake. I suppose I ought to feel ashamed of myself, but how can I? The sheer male power that radiates off of him in his furious state sends my heart madly fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, and I decide that I should make Kartik angry more often.

"You have a lot to answer for, Miss Doyle," he bites out, ineffectually employing his soggy sleeve to swipe at the water dripping steadily from the cleft in his chin.

Oh, so it's back to Miss Doyle, is it? I don't admit even to myself that this stings a little, because I know that's exactly what he intends by addressing me so formally. I change tacts, attempting to use my admittedly inexpert feminine wiles to subdue him. "Don't be silly, Kartik, you look frightful! You can't just stand there and drip, you'll catch your death! Let me get you some towels and something dry to wear…perhaps afterwards you'll be in a better humour and we can discuss –"

"Don't _manage_ me, little miss," he interrupts frostily, spotting my diversionary tactic without missing a beat. He whips his hair out of his face with a terse flick of his head, aiming his gimlet glower at me. "What in the bloody name of hell did you think you were doing, prancing in there like a –"

But I am in no mood to be harangued.

"You have _no right_ to lecture me, you blackguard," I hiss, resigning myself to the row once he's made it clear that he will not be deterred. "How _dare_ you bluster in as if you hold some kind of authority over me. You are not my father, you are not my brother, and you are most certainly not my husband! So have a towel," I thrust a bathing towel from my bureau at him, "and dry off. But I am afraid that is all the imposition I will allow you to put upon me, you arrogant pig of a man!"

Kartik's eyes narrow, but he is hardly put off by my counterblow. "I don't have to be married to you to give a damn about your well-being, woman! You claim that you can take care of yourself, but what in God's name would you have done had I not made that opportune appearance?"

My face flushes in both anger and shame at the realization that he does indeed have a point. "I was handling it just fine on my own," I insist, struggling to keep my voice down. "There was no danger until _you_ erupted onto the scene and insisted on stirring things up!"

"Why, you ingenuous little fool! I should have left you there to rot, for all the thanks I get!"

"Yes! Then we are in accord!" I retort, furiously crossing my arms over my midsection. I catch his eyes dashing swiftly over my unsuitably covered figure, his loaded glance so fleeting that I nearly miss it. Yet I recognize its implications once, for our liaison has been filled with such glances. It turns my insides into mush, having him look at me like that.

"You – are – impossible!" Kartik grinds out, the anger in his intense gaze beginning to deteriorate in the presence of a different, fathomless fire that takes my breath away. Try as I might, I cannot check the desire to push him further.

"That all depends on who's trying," I disclose in a silkier tone, silently daring him to do something, though I won't allow myself to imagine what.

The strange vigour in his eyes pulses hotly at my words, and he holds my gaze intently. "That sounds curiously like an invitation," he breathes carefully, suddenly growing very still.

"Perhaps it is," I venture boldly, shocked at my sudden fearlessness. I am split between the need to be in his arms and the fear of what will happen once I'm there.

He gives an involuntary shiver and his eyes flick down to my parted lips for the briefest of moments. "Gemma…"

I approach him, taking the bathing towel that is still in his hands and bringing it to his stubbled cheek, stroking the beaded droplets of water from his startled face. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'm powerless to deny myself. I'm close enough to feel his sultry, sweet-smelling breath in my hair, and that alone feels good enough to banish whatever concerns I ought to be having in regard to my motives.

There's a ferocity in his rigid stance as he fights wildly to resist what I'm offering, to maintain whatever semblance of propriety that lingers between us. I expect him to pull back at any moment, but instead he begins to loosen under my hands, closing his eyes in unspoken acquiescence. He gazes down at me as I stand on the tips of my toes to rub the towel over his head, cocking a knee-melting half grin as water flies out of his hair and all over me.

He does not shy away when I reach up to pluck at the little curl that never seems to wander far from the centre of his forehead. I push it aside, only to have it fall instantly back into place. Our eyes meet and the air around us crackles with electricity, urging me onward. I let my fingers sink deeper into his inky-black curls and I'm pulling him down to me, flattening myself against him until the only thing filling my mind is his hot, pliant mouth and the pounding of his heart against my chest. The press of his wet body against mine echoes back from a thousand dreams.

Kartik reaches a careful hand to cup the side of my neck, gently taking control of the kiss. His lips caress mine with maddening delicacy, and I want to shake him, though I can't exactly blame him for his wariness. I have led him on before.

But this time isn't like the other times. I am tired of pretending I don't want him. I am tired of pretending he doesn't want me. My whole life these days feels pretend, and Kartik is the only man I've ever been real with. I've been a fool in the past, but in this moment the sheer rightness of being with him comes to me like an epiphany. I don't plan to waste him any longer.

In an effort to convey to Kartik that I am finished toying with him, I boldly tug the hem of his shirt up and over his head, letting it fall with a soggy slap to the ground. My hands move hungrily over the damp heat of his sculpted chest and taut back, whimpering restlessly against his proper kiss, pleading for something I don't know how to ask him for with words. He seems, at last, to take my hint.

Unbridling his chivalrous self-denial, he grips my upper arms tightly and hauls me ever closely, his mouth claiming mine in an eager, aching kiss. It's glaringly evident that he has done this many more times than I have, but my lack of skill does not seem to trouble him. He cups the back of my head, driving my mouth harder against his as he presses his tongue against the seam of my lips. I admit him readily, gasping at the hot, wet, intimate sensation.

I am astonished to discover that he tastes of sweet peppermint, strongly implying that he came to me this evening somehow anticipating a kiss. I don't currently possess the presence of mind to ponder this, however. I stroke his tongue with my own, shyly at first, though it is not long before I am keeping pace with him. His hands roam down my back and over my sides to rest at my hips, gripping them firmly and pulling me closer still. I shudder with pleasure at the feeling of his thighs, belly, and chest in full contact with mine.

He tears his mouth away with a groan, and for a moment I fear he has chosen a rather terrible time to be sensible. Instead, his lips move to my neck, fixing an open-mouthed kiss to my racing pulse before sliding up to pull my earlobe between his practised lips. I quiver at the sensation of his mouth at my ear, my breath tightening at the tingling heat that has settled between my thighs. He seems to know his effect on me, for he whispers in my ear, "I haven't even begun to show you pleasure, sweeting."

His words and his throaty tone send a new shiver of anticipation through me, and all I can do is cling to his solid bare shoulders as his fingers toy seductively with the little curls at my nape.

He captures my bottom lip between his teeth and I let my hands glide down over his chest, brazenly brushing over his nipples with the pads of my thumbs. He groans hungrily and begins to push me towards the bed, and I am intoxicated by my ability to coax such a response from him.

"I need you," he whispers into our kiss, and I tremble at the innuendo of his statement. "I've needed you for so long."

"Oh, God," I reply, unable to give a more suitable response as his tongue darts out to trace the shell of my ear. He pushes my dressing gown off of my shoulders and I shake my arms to get rid of it, giving a cry of surprise as he lifts me off my feet and sets me tenderly onto the bed, as if I am made of fine china.

He pauses before lowering self onto me, and I watch him impatiently. The feral hunger in his gaze is almost more than I can bear, and I reach for him. He smiles seductively and takes one of my outstretched hands into his own, bringing it to his mouth and laying a gentle kiss across my knuckles. "I can't believe this is real," he murmurs, sweeping a stray lock of hair out of my face.

"Nor I," I breathe, impatient for him to satisfy the ache that is swelling inside of me. "Please."

Then he is above me, his powerful form pressing me deliciously into the mattress. His lips find mine once more, plundering my mouth in a kiss that throbs with longing. The searing heat of his hands seeps through the thin cotton of my nightdress as he caresses my thigh, taking a handful of the fabric and inching it slowly, carefully upward. His other hand cups my breast and I break our kiss with my moan of surprise and delight. I curse myself for denying us this for so dreadfully long. I can't imagine how something that feels so very, very right can be considered by Society to be so very, very wrong.

"Sweet holy God, this cannot go any further," he moans urgently, even as his fingers pull the buttons at my throat open. His mouth falls at once upon the newly bared skin, exploring my collarbone with careful attention.

"Shhh," I soothe him, knowing that if we don't finish this now, I might lose my nerve entirely. I arch into him, racking my brain for a lure to keep him here.

"Gemma," he gasps in agony, and I can tell by his tone that he means to do the proper thing and stop. He wouldn't be the honourable man I know him to be if he doesn't, but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Don't," I protest. "I want this. We –"

He kisses me into silence, climbing off of me and reaching down to cup my cheek. "Gemma, to take you now would be theft. I cannot afford to support you, I cannot promise you marriage. If I were to ruin you in a fit of passion like this one, I could never live with myself if I failed you when the time came to pay the price."

His words are brutal but true, and a tiny part of me is grateful to him for having more willpower than I do.

"Don't look at me like that," he whispers, dragging his thumb across my quivering lower lip. "This is not the end of it. Wait for me to establish myself, Gemma, and then, maybe…" he trails off as he leans down to kiss me, only to tear away moments later when the fire between us threatens to spread too far.

"All right," I murmur in reluctant agreement, accepting the squeeze he gives my hand and watching regretfully as he scoops his still sodden shirt from the floor, pulling it back over his head before slipping silently back into the storm.

I get up to change my nightdress, which is dampened with the water from his body. It is better this way, I decide, though I'm fully aware that nothing will ever be the same between us now. Now that I know his touch, I don't know how I will ever live without it.

I climb back into bed and dim the lamp again, knowing full well that if I ever manage to get to sleep, I will only dream of him.

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As I mentioned before, this is an experiment and I'm slightly uncertain of myself when it comes to writing straight romance. Definitely let me know if it ever gets cheesy. Please, please, please feel free to point out any and all flaws/successes. I'm very fond of specifics, whether positive or negative. :)


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